Party Crashin'
by Avogadro's Minion
Summary: How do you make the CSI team mad? Simple. Mess with one of their lab techs. And that's not the only party going up in smoke tonight... Set somewhere around Season 3. Reading and reviewing are both highly encouraged. Rated for language and somewhat risque setting - it IS Vegas, after all...
1. Prologue: Girls' Night

**Prologue: Girls' Night**

"Yoink," Annie giggled, reaching over and taking her car keys from the basket in the middle of the table.

"What, leaving already, Annie?" Molly smirked. "Party's just getting started."

"That may be, but I've got work," Annie laughed, slurping the last of her Sprite through her straw. "So party on, girls – I'll see you ladies at practice on Tuesday." Picking up her backpack from under the table, she got to her feet, a little wobbly.

"You all right there, Annie?" Ruth asked.

"Yeah – I probably just stood up too fast. Low blood pressure," she nodded. "Happy birthday again, Becca," she laughed. Waving, she headed out of the restaurant.

* * *

"Hey, Annie," Greg grinned, waving, as the toxicologist stepped into the locker room. He paused. Annie seemed to be having trouble walking in a straight line. "You all right, there?"

Annie collapsed onto a bench with visible relief. "No... I've been insanely dizzy since I got out of the car, and I have no idea why."

"Low blood pressure, maybe?" Greg suggested.

"I'm usually at the very low end of normal," Annie nodded, taking off her embroidered denim jacket and draping it over her backpack on the floor. "But that shouldn't make me _this_ bad. I'm gonna go see if Doc Robbins has any ideas – maybe I've got an inner ear infection or something."

"I'll walk with you," Greg nodded. He rather suspected that she would fall flat on her face before she got there if she tried to go by herself.

* * *

Greg's suspicion had been correct – by the time the two lab techs got down to the morgue, he was half-carrying Annie. "Doc, you got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," the coroner replied making his way over from his desk. "What's the trouble?"

"I've been so dizzy the room's spinning for the last... ten or fifteen minutes or so, maybe?" Annie replied. "It's getting worse, I can't stand up on my own at this point."

Al Robbins nodded to a nearby chair. "Have a seat, and let's have a look," he said, stepping away and retrieving an opthalmascope, a stethoscope, and a blood pressure cuff. "Are you prone to low blood pressure at all, Annie?"

"I usually sit at about 90/60, occasionally as low as 85/55. I get dizzy if I stand up quickly, but the only time I've ever been _this_ bad was a bad reaction to an antibiotic. And before you ask, all I've taken today were my usual Zyrtec and Prozac, and two Advil for a headache. No way that could cause this."

"Well, let's take a look," the doctor nodded, stepping over and applying the blood pressure cuff.

Greg, meanwhile, stepped aside and pulled out his cell phone, quickly sending off two messages.

"Well, that explains the dizzyness," the doctor said. "You're at 75/50. I've had patients with lower blood pressure, I'll grant, but..."

"They don't have a pulse," Annie finished wryly.

"Exactly," Robbins nodded. "Hold still, and let's have a look at your ears."

"Can do," Annie nodded. She did her best to comply, but her head was feeling unbearably heavy.

"Wellllll... I'm not seeing any signs of an ear problem, Annie," Robbins said, his expression growing more perplexed by the second.

Annie nodded, clearly fighting to keep her head upright and her eyes open. "Justwanttosleep," she said, her speech beginning to slur a bit.

"None of that – stay with me, Annie,"

At that moment, Grissom and Annie's fiance, Scott, stepped into the morgue.

"Thanks for paging us, Greg," Scott nodded. The LVPD officer hurried over to his fiancee's side. "Annie, hon – what's up?"

"I... Idon'tknow... Did... didyoufeedthecat? And...andthe... thewhatdoyoucallit... the dog?"

"Yes, I fed Mozart, and McCartney too," Scott nodded. "Greg... how long has she been like this?"

"She was really dizzy when she got up to the locker room, but she was totally coherent until like two minutes ago, I swear."

Scott frowned. "Doc, you equipped to pull blood from a patient who's still breathing?"

"Of course," Robbins nodded.

"Good. Get a sample. Now."

"What's wrong, Scott?" Grissom asked.

"Annie was out at a birthday party with the girls from the fencing club before she came here," Scott replied, his normally friendly face etched into a scowl. "Alcohol gives her migraines, so she doesn't drink, at all, ever. I think someone may have slipped something in her soda."

"Mmm... Soda... Plopplopfizzfizz... ohwhatareliefitis..." Annie jumped as Robbins inserted a needle into her vein. "Ow, Doc!"

"One blood sample," Robbins nodded, disconnecting the vacuum tube.

"Greg, get that to the lab. Now," Grissom ordered.

Not needing to be told twice, Greg sprinted out of the morgue.

"Scott, do you know where the party was?" Grissom asked.

"The Rite Place, that new steakhouse out by the strip," Scott nodded, immediately seeing where Grissom's mind had gone. "Better get a squad car and a CSI or two out there. The BroadSwords are a group of about fifteen 20-something year old ladies – they'll be the ones giggling and cracking phallic jokes involving sabers and epees; you can't miss 'em."

"Oh, shit – David, I need a dose of epinephrine over here, _STAT_," Robbins shouted. "Whatever she was given, she's massively allergic to it – she's going into anaphylactic shock."

* * *

Pulling up outside the Rite Place, Warrick parked the Tahoe, and he and Catherine headed inside, a couple of uniformed LVPD officers close behind. As Scott had promised, the BroadSwords were not difficult to find – they were giggling in a back room. Notably there was one empty seat at the table set for sixteen, at which there was a glass full of ice and the remains of a clear beverage. "Ladies," Warrick nodded.

One of the women nearest him stood. "Is there a problem, Officers?" she asked.

"There is," Catherine nodded. "Was Anne Rose here with you tonight?"

Another woman nodded. "Yeah, Annie's a night shift lab tech at the crime lab – she left for work about half an hour or so ago." The woman frowned. "Is she in trouble?"

"Only of the medical variety," Warrick replied. "Was she acting strangely at all before she left?"

"No, she seemed totally normal," the first woman said, shaking her head. "She was a little dizzy when she stood up, but she's pretty tall with low blood pressure – that's common for her. What happened, is she okay?"

"Was she drinking tonight?" Catherine asked.

"Only if you count Sprite," a third woman replied. "Annie never drinks when we go out – she says it gives her migraines, so she's always happy to be designated driver. Anyways, if she'd been drinking, we wouldn't have let her leave." The blonde pointed her thumb at a basket full of key rings in the middle of the table. "The BroadSwords party hard, and party crazy, but we also party safe – when you arrive, your car keys go in the basket. If when you're ready to leave, you're still sober, you can have 'em back. If you aren't, either someone who hasn't been drinking will give you a ride home, or we'll call you a cab. Now, for the love of God, what happened to Annie?"

"She collapsed when she arrived at work. We believe her drink may have been tampered with," Warrick said grimly.

The table fell silent as fifteen jaws dropped in near unison. At last, one woman managed to find her tongue. "Does Scott know?"

Catherine nodded. "He's with her."

"We're going to need everyone's glasses," Warrick told the group. "And we're going to need everyone to stay with us for a couple hours' observation – if one drink was tampered with, there could be more, and if so, we want to make sure there's prompt medical attention."


	2. Chapter 1: I Am Lab Rat, Hear Me Squeak

**Chapter 1: I Am Lab Rat, Hear Me Squeak**

"Sorry I'm late," Brass said, stepping up behind Catherine and Warrick. "Accident on the interstate."

"Glad we took Tropicana, then," Warrick nodded. He turned back to the assembled group of fencers. "If you ladies wouldn't mind, we'd like to get fingerprints from each of you – it will help us to eliminate you from physical evidence found at the scene."

Brass nodded. "If you would prefer, we can get a warrant."

The blonde who'd explained the car keys policy raised an eyebrow and looked around at the other fourteen women who all nodded, clearly coming to some sort of non-verbal agreement. "No need," she said, getting emphatic nods of agreement from the others. "If it'll help you find the sorry, oxygen-wasting bastard who did that to Annie, we'll give you fingerprints, DNA, and anything else you need."

"Thank you," Catherine nodded. "We'll also need statements from each of you."

"No problem," the blonde replied. "Can you please start with Meredith? She's gotta get home to the babysitter."

Warrick nodded. "Sure thing."

* * *

In a back room of the restaurant, Warrick sat across a table from Meredith. "Did you notice anything or anyone acting strange or aggressive tonight?" he asked.

"I don't know that I'd call it aggressive, but... a bunch of the bartenders were being really flirty. Quite a few of us are single, and actively encourage that sort of thing, but even before she met Scott, Annie was never as flirty as some of us. These days, she usually just ;aughs, shows them her ring, and tells them they're a little too late. There was this one waiter, though... Annie told him she wasn't interested, but he kept at it. Eventually, he crossed the line from flirty into flat-out inappropriate, and she told him to fuck off."

"In as many words?" Warrick asked.

"Pretty much – she used a few extras, and repeated the sentiment in Russian, Vulcan, and Klingon in case he didn't get the hint." Meredith smirked. "Annie is sweet and fun and funny, and she seems so innocent, but man, when she decides she ain't gonna take your shit, she Ain't. Gonna. Take. Your. Shit."

"What time was that?"

"Maybe half an hour before she left for work – 9:45, 10:00. Somewhere in there."

"Can you tell me what this guy looked like?"

"About your height, brown eyes, spiky light-brown hair, silver hoop in his left ear."

"Thanks."

* * *

Annie slowly became aware of an incredibly annoying beep. Opening her eyes, she looked around, but it didn't do her much good – she had had terrible eyesight since she was a toddler, and she couldn't see for beans without glasses.

"Thank God, you're awake," said a familiar voice by her ear.

"Scott," Annie sighed, more relieved to hear his voice than she would ever be able to put into words. "Three questions... One... do you know... where my... glasses are? Two... where the hell am I? And three... what in the... seventeen noodley hells... of the Flying Spaghetti Monster happened?"

"One, right here. Two, at Desert Palm. And three, Greg, Catherine, and Warrick are working on figuring out the details," Scott replied, putting her glasses into her hand.

Putting her glasses back on uncrossed Annie's eyes, and she was at last able to take in her surroundings properly. IV needle in her hand, oxygen cannula in her nose, and the source of that infernal beep, a pulse oximeter on her finger. Yep, this was a hospital room, all right. Scott sat on one side of the bed, holding her hand, and Grissom sat on the other. And there in the corner, his crutch propped on the arm of his chair, sat Doc Robbins. "Okay, can you... give me a... broad overview?" she asked hopefully. "And can I get... some water? My throat feels like... the Mojave."

"The oxygen will do that to you," Robbins nodded, as Scott put a water glass with a bent straw into her hand. "You gave us all quite the scare, young lady - how are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by... a mack truck," she said, wincing. "Anyone see... which... way it went?"

"That way," Scott smirked, pointing at the ceiling. He couldn't hide his smile when that elicited a small chuckle from his fiancee.

"Ticket... the driver, will ya?" she smirked. "I've got a migraine... my lungs feel all... congested, and I am unbelievably itchy. Like I took... a bath... in poison ivy. With a... colony of mosquitoes."

"I can give you the gist of what we think happened, but first, tell me how much you remember," Grissom told her.

"I was out partying... with the girls from... fencing tonight – got there at about 6:00, and they were still... going strong when... I left for work at 10:30," Annie said. She was speaking slowly, needing time to find the right words, but she was reasonably alert and coherent, and seemingly back to her usual personality – already a considerable improvement over a couple hours previously. "I was... crazy-dizzy when I got... to the locker room. I remember... Greg walking me down to the morgue... and I think a... joke about my low blood pressure? After that... I got nothin'."

"You're a very lucky woman," Robbins observed. "If you hadn't come down to the morgue, I doubt you would have made it."

Annie stared around at each of the three men. "Pardon... my language... but..._ what the flying fuck happened?_"

Grissom sighed. "We believe your drink was drugged while you were out tonight – Greg is working on finding out with what as we speak."

Robbins nodded. "Almost certainly some kind of central nervous system depressant, which dropped your blood pressure and, in a sick twist of irony, probably saved your life in doing so."

Annie stared at the coroner as though he'd grown a second head. "How did... being unable to walk under... my own power... save my life?"

"It got you dizzy enough to come looking for me," Robbins said wryly. "Whatever you were given, you are severely allergic to it – if you hadn't already been down in the morgue, I sincerely doubt that David and I could have gotten the epinephrine into you fast enough."

"Thank God... for small favors," Annie observed wryly. As her train of thought finally pulled into the station, her eyes went wide in alarm. "The rest... of the girls? What if... I wasn't the only one?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Scott told her, brushing a strand of red hair out of her face with the back of his hand. "We're a few steps ahead of you on that one."

Grissom nodded. "Catherine and Warrick are already out there, along with a couple of uniforms – if anyone else starts showing symptoms, we'll know right away."

"Thanks," Annie sighed, visibly relaxing.

Grissom's phone rang. "Greg," he said, glancing at the caller ID as he pushed the 'talk' button. "What have you got, Greg?"

"Annie's blood tests positive for flunitrazepam – she was given at least three times what would be the recommended dose if it could be legally prescribed in this country."

"Thanks, Greg."

"How's she doing?"

"She's all right – she just woke up about fifteen minutes ago. She should be past the danger zone at this point."

"Tell her I hope she feels better soon."

Grissom nodded. "I'll do that, Greg - I'll be back to the lab within the next hour, probably." Returning the phone to his pocket, he smiled at his lab tech. "Greg says he hopes you feel better soon."

Annie grinned. "Can... you tell him... thanks?"

"Of course," Grissom nodded.

"So... what did they give me?" she asked, attempting to sit up a bit, but finding that her body wasn't ready to cooperate with that plan just yet.

"Have you ever had a prescription for benzodiazepines?" Grissom asked.

Annie shook her head. "No – I have anxiety issues related to the Asperger's... but they stay pretty well... under control with just... an SSRI."

"Stay away from them, then," Grissom nodded. "You're severely allergic to flunitrazepam."

Annie nodded. "Rohypnol. Always... a classic."

Scott facepalmed. "Damn, Annie – even drugged halfway to the moon, you're still a toxicologist," he laughed. Given that she was known to lecture him on the finer points of chemistry and lab instrumentation while half-asleep (or more) late at night, it wasn't all that surprising.

Annie smirked. "I am Lab Rat, hear me squeak." She sighed, scratching absently at her itchy neck. "What on earth... have they got me on, anyway?"

"Let's see," Scott said, counting on his fingers. "You're probably still feeling the effects of the roofies, and the epinephrine that Doc Robbins and David shot you full of when you started coding out... and your IV contains prednisone and benadryl to get your immune system to quit freaking out... and there might be some kind of mild stimulant," he finished. "Oh, and there's an epipen here that I've been instructed to stab you with if you quit breathing again."

Annie smirked. "I can... think of... much better things... for you to stab me with..."

Robbins just laughed. "Glad you're feeling better, Annie," he said, picking up his crutch and getting to his feet. "Come on, Gil – I think that would be our hint to leave these two in peace."

Grissom set a hand on Annie's shoulder. "You take care of yourself, Annie," he said. With that, he followed the coroner out.

Annie sighed, turning her head toward Scott. "Will you... will you stay with me... tonight, Scott?"

"Don't worry, Hon – I'm not going anywhere until they send you home."

She smiled sleepily. "Thanks. You're... the best." She paused. "Will you come... cuddle with me?"

"Of course," he smiled. Kicking off his shoes, he took off his uniform shirt and untucked his t-shirt, then lay down on the bed next to his fiancee, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She soon fell back asleep, but Scott remained awake, one eye on the pulse oximeter's monitor.


	3. Chapter 2: Crash and Burn

**Chapter 2: Crash and Burn**

Several anxious faces had gathered 'round, anxiously awaiting news, when Grissom and Robbins returned from the hospital. "Doc, Griss – how's Annie?" Nick asked.

"Exhausted, and she's got a bad case of hives from the allergic reaction, but she's alert and responsive," Robbins assured them. "She'll probably still be feeling like she got kicked by a mule come morning, but she's out of danger at this point."

"Thank God," Greg sighed.

"Find anything else in that blood sample, Greg?" Grissom asked.

Greg shook his head. "Just the cetirizine, fluoxetine, and ibuprofen she already told the doc she'd taken. Standard adult dosages of each, nothing weird there."

Grissom was about to reply, but was interrupted by his cell phone. "Grissom," he said, answering it.

"It's O'Riley – we've got a limo that hit a K-rail in the construction zone down on Fremont, spun out, then nailed two construction barrels and a lamp post. Two dead – the driver, and a young woman in the back. We're going to need CSI to process the scene."

"All right, Nick and Sara are on their way."

"Thanks, Grissom. O'Riley out."

"What's up, Grissom?" Sara asked as the supervisor returned his phone to his pocket.

"Limo accident in the construction zone on Fremont, two dead. Check it out, and keep me in the loop."

"On it," Sara nodded.

As Nick and Sara rushed out, Grissom turned to Greg. "By the way? Annie says Thanks."

* * *

"No skid marks," Nick observed as he and Sara walked up toward the wrecked limo, field kits in hand. "Driver didn't even try to stop."

"Incapacitated by something, maybe – a heart attack or a seizure?" Sara suggested. "There's O'Riley," she said, pointing.

"O'Riley – what have we got?" Nick asked, stepping up to the detective.

"A delivery driver in traffic behind the limo called it in right after the accident occurred. He's pretty shaken up, you may want to give him a few minutes before you try to talk to him."

"All right," Sara nodded. "Sounds like we start with the limo. You want front seat or back, Nick?"

"I'll take the John Doe up front," Nick nodded.

"All right – I've got Jane in the back."

* * *

"Nick..." Sara said, shining her maglight around the backseat of the limo. "There's only one body back here, but judging by these alcohol glasses, there were at least five passengers."

"Wonder where the others went," Nick mused. "We'll have to see if our witness saw them slip out after the accident."

"Got a couple of used condoms back here," Sara observed, photographing and bagging them. "This was a party on wheels - Greg'll have to tell us if the female DNA component is a match to Jane here."

Frowning, Nick snapped several photos of the palm of the male vic's right hand, then unbuttoned his white shirt, snapping more pictures.

"Ey, Nick!" Sara yelped, shielding her eyes from the bright light of the camera flash with her gloved hand. "Give me some warning before you flash me!"

"Sorry," came the reply from the front seat. "Sara... I don't think the driver died in the impact."

"What? A seizure or something?"

"No... This wasn't an accident, and it wasn't natural - John Doe here was murdered. He was electrocuted..."

"Nick... Jane didn't die in the collision either. There's a stab wound in her back."

* * *

Catherine and Warrick came in from the Tahoe carrying boxes of evidence.

"Any other vics?" Grissom asked.

"No, it seems to have been just Annie," Catherine said, shaking her head. "All fifteen of the other BroadSwords say there was one waiter who was getting flirty with Annie, wouldn't leave her alone, even though there were half a dozen other girls there encouraging flirting. He eventually hit the point of outright harassment, and she told him to fuck off."

"Annie actually used the f-word?" Grissom asked.

"Apparently she did," Warrick nodded. "In several languages, even. Apparently, she was pretty pissed. And it gets weirder."

"Werder how?" Grissom asked.

"The guy Annie's girlfriends described as the one hassling her? Yeah, restaurant management says that there's no one matching that description on their waitstaff, or on their payroll in any other capacity."

"Odd indeed," Grissom agreed.

* * *

"Greg," Warrick said, stepping into the lab. "I've got sixteen glasses here - I need you to test them all for the presence of benzos."

"On it," Greg nodded. "It may take a while - with Annie out, I'm swamped."

Warrick nodded. "Understood."

* * *

"Witness's name is Benjamin Harrison," O'Riley said, nodding towards where a young man in khaki cargo pants and a sky blue polo shirt was sitting near some EMTs, a styrofoam cup in his hand. "He's a driver for Pegasus Express courier service."

Nick nodded. "All right - let's go see what he saw."  
He walked over toward the man, Sara and O'Riley following close behind.

"Mr. Harrison?" Sara said as they approached the driver. "I'm Sara Sidle, this is Nick Stokes; we're from the crime lab. And this is Detective O'Riley. If it's all right, we'd like to ask you some questions about what happened."

The man nodded. "Sure. But just call me Ben."

"Can do," Nick nodded. It was a frequent request from witnesses, particularly those under the age of 30 or so. "Can you tell us what you saw happen?"

"The limo was going a couple miles under the speed limit - I was gonna pass him as soon as we were out of construction. All of a sudden, when the road curved around, he didn't follow the curve - he barreled straight into the k-rail, spun out, and took out a couple barrels before the lamp post finally stopped him. I slammed my breaks to keep from hitting him, then pulled off and called you guys."

"Did he slow down at all?" O'Riley asked.

Ben shook his head. "Not until he was decelerated by the k-rail and the laws of physics."

"Was he showing any other signs of erratic behavior?" Sara asked.

"Not at all - drove in a straight line, used his blinkers, and everything."

"Did you notice anything at all odd before the collision, Ben?" Nick asked.

The driver paused. "You guys are gonna think I'm insane."

Sara shook her head. "I sincerely doubt that."

"Whatever it is, I can about promise you that we've heard crazier," Nick agreed. "So shoot."

"All right - just remember, you asked," Ben said, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender. "Just before the limo lost control, I saw blue sparks fly out the window, and a freaky reflection in the driver's side mirror. It looked like lightning."

"That... isn't freaky at all," Sara said. "We believe the driver may have been electrocuted."

Ben whistled. "Daaaaaang... now I've seen _everything_..."

O'Riley shook his head. "Having been in this job a few years... Trust me, Ben - not even close."


	4. Chapter 3: Bite Me

**Chapter 3: Bite Me**

"Got the results on all sixteen of those glasses, Warrick," Greg said. "A few of them contained alcohol, but when a big group of adults goes out to dinner with no munchkins to deal with..."

"That's not especially surprising," Warrick nodded. "Several of them told us they'd had a drink or two. Any alcohol in Annie's glass?"

Greg shook his head. "Not a trace - I'd probably find more alcohol in her mouthwash. Hers was the only one to test positive for benzodiazepines, however. Somehow, I don't think Sprite and Rohypnol on the rocks is gonna catch on as a cocktail."

"God, I hope not," Warrick sighed. "Thanks, Greg."

* * *

"Your hunch was correct, Nick," Robbins said, looking up from the autopsy table. "Your male victim died of electrocution. Current entered through his right palm, exited through the left heel. Do you have a name for him yet?"

Nick nodded. "His driver's license says his name is John Tyson. Anything else you can tell us about him?"

"Well, he has sickle-cell trait - not anemia, fortunately - and a mild case of scoliosis. Also, he broke a number of bones at about the same time within the last two to three years," Robbins replied. "He's got a couple of pins in his right ulna, several healed ribs and a healed skull fracture, and his left tibia and femur have been surgically reconstructed."

"Car accident, maybe?" Sara suggested.

"Possibly," Robbins nodded. "You'll need to pull his medical records for specifics."

"Anything on our Jane Doe?" Sara asked. "Given how much she wasn't wearing in the back of that limo, I suppose it isn't surprising that we didn't find an ID on her."

"She's no longer a Jane Doe," Robbins nodded. "She has silicone breast implants; I was able to trace the serial number. Her name is Kestrel Morgan, age 23. She was stabbed in the back with some force, the blade passed through quite a bit of cartilage before entering the heart. Coronary artery was nearly severed, she would have bled out quite quickly even had the damage to the heart muscle itself not proven fatal," he continued, stepping over to wash his hands. "Another potential point of interest - vaginal bruising patterns indicate rough but most likely consensual sex an hour or two before she died. No semen present, so her partner must have been wearing a condom."

* * *

"Anything of note in Annie's backpack?" Warrick asked, stepping into the layout room where Catherine was working her way through the physical evidence.

"Nope – wallet, lunchbox, cellphone, iPod, sweatshirt, water bottle, a bottle of OTC ibuprofen, an albuterol inhaler, her calendar, and a few miscellaneous toiletries," Catherine said, shaking her head. "Greg have any surprises with the glassware?"

"Nope – Annie's contained benzos but no alcohol; a few others contained alcohol but no benzos," he shook his head. "Sixteen women there, some of whom are actively flirting – why target Annie in particular?"

* * *

"How're you feeling, Annie?" Scott asked when his fiancée finally awoke just before 7:00 in the morning.

"Like I just got charged by an angry rhinoceros," Annie said wryly, squinting at the bright lights. "That migraine is still hanging around, and I can feel where our favorite coroners stabbed me full of epinephrine - my whole hip aches like I got kicked by a horse." Turning to look at him, she managed to smile. "Have you seriously been lying there all night?"

"Of course," he grinned. "The nurse didn't ask me to move."

"Aww, you're so sweet," Annie giggled.

"I try, my dear," he laughed, kissing the top of her head.

"Who are the flowers from?" Annie asked, squinting at the three arrangements across the room. As foggy as her head had been when she'd briefly woken up last night, she had no idea whether they'd been there then or not.

"Thecarnations are from your Mom and Dad, the gerbera daisies are from the graveyard crew down at CSI, and the one with the tulips, tiger lilies, and daffodils is from the BroadSwords," Scott grinned. "And my folks brought these," he laughed, picking up a nearby plate of homemade baked goods.

She was still squinting, eyes only half in focus, but one sniff told Annie everything she needed to know. "Erin's orange chocolate chip cookies and peppermint brownies? And her cherry almond bars?" she grinned, eyes lighting up. "Yoink!" she giggled, snatching a chocolate chip cookie from the plate and nibbling away. "Aside from the migraine, life doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden," she snickered.

"The nurse said to let him know if the migraine was still hanging around when you woke up, and he'd get you some Imitrex." He was rather relieved – her hives didn't seem to have gone down much, if at all, but he was glad to see the hesitation gone from her speech. He was even more relieved to hear her laughing again.

"Bless his little heart," Annie smirked.

As if on cue, the nurse stepped in. "Hi Annie, I'm Mark," he said cheerfully. "We met last night, but I doubt you remember it. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better than last night, but I've still got a nasty little migraine," she replied.

"We were afraid you would say that," Mark nodded, his patient's pronounced squint suggesting that, relative good spirits not withstanding, she likely was not exaggerating. "So Dr. Lacey went ahead and prescribed you the Imitrex," he said, passing her a small paper cup with a single tablet in it. "It's a quick-dissolve tablet, so it should start working within a few minutes."

"Thanks," Annie sighed, gratefully popping it into her mouth as Mark set about checking vitals.

"You had quite the adventure last night," Mark remarked conversationally.

"Tell me about it," Annie snickered. "I just wish I could remember any of it."

"Yeah, you were pretty well out of it when they brought you in," Mark nodded. "Your oxygen sats are still looking a little low, so given that you have pre-existing asthma, we'll go ahead and leave you on the O2 for a couple more hours, just to be safe," he said.

"Any word on when I can go home?" Annie asked hopefully. She was eager to be rid of the IV and cannula, and even more eager to be rid of that damn catheter, but most of all, she desperately wanted to curl up with the cat, a hot cup of tea, and some classical music. And maybe a good book...

"I don't have any word on that, no, but Dr. Lacey should be able to give you an idea when she comes on rounds in an hour. By the way, she's got a med student with her today – do you mind if Elijah tags along?"

Annie shook her head. "Not at all." With the imitrex already working its magic, she at last opened her eyes all the way.

"All right, I'll let them know," Mark nodded, making a few notations on Annie's chart. "Breakfast should be coming around in about half an hour if you're hungry – I recommend the pancakes. In the meantime, I'll let you get some more rest." With that, the pleasant young man stepped out, closing the door behind him.

"He seems a nice sort," Annie observed.

"Yeah, he was really helpful and understanding last night," Scott nodded. "He had infinite patience for all my questions, and he told me that if it made you feel better, I could stay on your bed for as long as you wanted. Not like the nurse you had when you first came in last night – I swear, she must've had a broom parked out in the staff lot. Half expected her to turn me into a newt for daring to ask how you were doing."

Annie quirked an eyebrow at him, trying and failing to hide her smirk. "A _newt_?"

Scott shrugged. "I got better."

"Ouch," she giggled. "I think maybe I'm glad I slept through that part."

"Believe me, you have no idea," Scott snickered. Both he and Annie turned as there came a knock at the door.

"Come in," Annie called. "Ecklie," she nodded. "Didn't expect to see you here this morning. Pull up a chair, if you want."

"Enjoying your vacation?" he asked acidicly, dropping into a chair.

"No," Annie said dryly. "I _tried_ to enjoy an evening celebrating a friend's birthday, but I was instead drugged with intentions that it frankly scares me to think about, and if that weren't enough, said drug very nearly killed me. I woke up this morning with a migraine and systemic hives. Consequently, my head is pounding, and I itch as I have never itched in my life. I've got a needle in my hand, a cannula in my nose, and a few other odds and ends in places where I'd really rather they not be. The incessant beep of monitoring equipment is likely to drive me insane. My book and my various crafts projects are all at home. This... isn't a vacation. I would much, _much_ rather be at work."

Ecklie smirked at Scott, who was still lying next to Annie, his arm around her shoulders. "Playing Doctor, eh? Niiiice," he winked. "Did you know she was going out last night, Scott?"

Scott gave the other man a cold stare – it grew colder still as he felt Annie tense up at the implication, however vague, that they'd been sleeping together in any sense but the most literal after her traumatic experience of the night before. "Annie is an adult, Ecklie, not a child – she doesn't need my permission or anyone else's to go out on a Friday night. But yes, I knew where she was going – in point of fact, I asked her to tell Becca 'happy birthday' for me."

"So, you were out gossiping with a bunch of shopaholics..."

"No, actually – quite a few of us, myself included, loathe shopping. I was out with the girls from the fencing club."

"You _fence_?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Hardly ladylike."

"Yeah, I dance ballet, too," Annie replied, rolling her eyes. "I know this may come as a shock to you, Ecklie, but I've never much given a damn as to what is or is not ladylike, and last I checked, my hobbies were not dictated by my uterus. I fence. I dance. I knit. I sew. I paint. I carve wood. I play guitar. I study ninjitsu. I play Dungeons and Dragons. Your point was?"

"Well, aren't we a feminazi?"

"No. A feminazi would have slapped you by now, IV and oxygen lines not withstanding," Annie said dryly. "Ecklie, if you're trying your hand at candystriping, you are doing a _really_ crappy job at it."

"I'm not here to cheer up the poor little invalid; I'm here to find out why you were out drinking on the city's time last night," Ecklie snapped. "When anyone associated with the department shows such poor judgment, it reflects poorly on all of us."

Annie glared at him. "Ecklie, I'd appreciate your not using the word 'invalid' to refer to me, or to anyone else - when anyone associated with the department uses such outdated, derogatory terms in such condescending manner to refer to disabilities, it reflects poorly on all of us. As for last night, one, I was not _on_ the city's time – I went out to dinner well before the start of my shift, and arrived at work some fifteen minutes early. Contrary to popular belief, those of us working the off shift _do_ have a life. Sometimes, it even includes those who see the sun. Two, have you not looked at the lab results? I _know_ Greg got them run last night. I wasn't drinking anything but Sprite. In point of fact, I do not drink, at all, ever, because even small amounts of alcohol – considerably less than half a beer's worth – will give me a blinding migraine within about fifteen minutes. I discovered this my senior year in college, and I haven't touched the stuff since. Among my circle of friends, I am a permanent designated driver. Now if you can't show some tact and some common decency, either bug off until I get rid of this headache or come back with a warrant. When anyone associated with the department shows such poor logical reasoning, it reflects poorly on all of us."

"No need to be so defensive," Ecklie said, rolling his eyes. "Is there?"

Scott had had more than enough. "Ecklie, you are upsetting my fiancee. Annie has been through enough in the last eight hours. Leave. _Now._ And do not come back, with or without a warrant - if you can get the warrant, you can find someone less insensitive to serve it."

"If you'll excuse me, unlike _some_ people, _I_ have work to do today," Ecklie nodded. "Do _try_ not to embarrass the department any further, Annie." With that, he got up and headed out.

"My knight in shining armor," Annie smiled, cuddling up to Scott's shoulder once the door closed. "I really should have just told him 'bite me'," she observed. "That man can be _such_ an ass sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Scott smirked. "Is he the reason you requested the transfer to graveyard shift?"

"Only sometimes," Annie nodded. "Believe it or not, he has moments where he's actually a pretty okay guy, and even manages to attain pretty cool status now and again. But he's one of the main reasons I transferred to nights, yes. There's only so much condescending bullshit I can take before 8am."


	5. Chapter 4: The Equivalents Per Liter

**Chapter 4: The Equivalents Per Liter**

"Your oxygen saturation is looking much better, but your blood pressure is still awfully low, Annie," Elijah observed, checking vitals under Dr. Lacey's watchful eye.

"How low is it?" Annie asked.

"You're at 87/58," the med student replied. "I'd like to see you at at least 100/ 70."

"You're going to be waiting a long time, then," Annie laughed. "Normal for me is around 90/60 - I've hit 110/80 exactly once in my life, and that was immediately pre-op for appendicitis."

"Well, in that case, given that you're alert and responsive and your oxygen sats have been stable for a couple of hours without supplemental oxygen, we'll go ahead and get the discharge paperwork for you," Dr. Lacey grinned. "I'm going to put you on oral Prednisone for two days, and I want you on Benadryl three times a day until the hives clear up."

Annie nodded. "Should I keep taking the Zyrtec too?"

"Definitely," Dr. Lacey nodded. "Pay your PCP a visit if the hives haven't cleared up within four days."

"I've got an appointment with him on Monday anyways," Annie nodded. "How soon can I return to work?"

"You've metabolized the Rohypnol out of your blood at this point, so you're okay to go back to work tonight if you're feeling up to it. If you're too tired, by all means, stay home and get some rest."

"Awesome," Annie grinned. She was anxious to get back to her normal routine, and given where her mind had been drifting, a night home alone while Scott was at work likely would not be good for her mental health right now.

"Glad you're feeling better, Annie," Elijah grinned. "We'll go get the discharge papers together for you."

As the doctor and med student left the room, Scott smirked at his fiancée. "You're planning to be back at work tonight, aren't you?"

"Yup," Annie nodded. "I need to get back to routine, and it'll be less stressful to be there, running samples through the GCMS, than it would to be at home, watching my mind run races with itself and manage to lose," she sighed.

"Annie, I think you should maybe talk to a counselor about what happened last night..." Her palpable fear when she'd first woken up late in the night and her jumpiness all morning had not escaped his notice.

"And I'm quite sure that I should, but I need a couple of days to calm down and lose the Aspie jitters before it'll be very productive, and I'd like some method of finding one besides the Yellow Pages. I'll ask Dr. Hancock if there's someone he recommends when I go in on Monday."

Scott nodded. "Fair enough. I'm holding you to that, by the way."

"Good - please do." She sighed. "My esteemed colleagues probably declared the khakis and green button-down I was wearing last night evidence, didn't they?"

"Sure did," Scott nodded. "And your brown oxfords as well. But you're in luck - Emily and Cliff brought my car over here when they came in from patrol at 0400 so we'd be able to go straight home when they turned you loose. I think your dance bag is still in my trunk, and I know mine is - between the two, we should be able to scrounge you up some civvies."

"I know I've got some track pants and a pair of street shoes in there," Annie nodded. "Probably out of luck on a bra, though."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't have that stashed with my tights," Scott smirked.

"If you did, I think that would raise some questions I'm not sure I want to ask," Annie snickered. "No matter, I can improvise with a leotard - anything is better than this stupid hospital gown at this point. Open 24-7," she said wryly.

Scott nodded, putting his shoes back on. "I'll go downstairs and get your gear, then," he grinned.

* * *

By the time Dr. Lacey and Elijah returned with discharge papers, Annie had traded the gown for grey track pants and jacket with pink stripes, pink and yellow running shoes, and a bright pink leotard. She was sitting on the foot of the bed, laughing with her fiancé as she brushed out and braided her red hair.

"Anxious to deprive us of your company, I take it?" Elijah laughed.

Annie laughed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but yes."

"Can't say that I blame you any," Dr. Lacey grinned. "Take it easy today, all right? Especially if you're planning to be back at work tonight. And I know most night shifters need a little caffeine to make it through, but try to go easy on the coffee."

"I'll tie you to the bed if I have to," Scott smirked.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Annie teased, giggling. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on anything more strenuous than taking our golden retriever puppy for a walk around the block. And maybe kicking Scott's butt at Trivial Pursuit," she smirked.

"Oh, it is _on_," Scott laughed.

"In that case, you two head on out of here," Elijah laughed, handing Scott the paperwork. "Take care."

* * *

"Well, well - the phoenix rises," Greg laughed, seeing Annie come into the locker room. "How're you feeling?"

"Still itchy, and I swear I'm a walking snot factory, but on the whole, much better," Annie grinned, grabbing her lab coat and buttoning it over her flowered polo shirt. "That was one experience I don't care to repeat."

"No kidding," Greg agreed. "We were worried about you."

"Thanks, Greg – that means a lot," she nodded.

"Of course. What time did they send you home?"

"About noon – they wanted to wait until they were sure I was stable without supplemental O2. I'll tell you what, McCartney has _never_ been so excited to see me – she was jumping, yipping, barking... I'd about swear the pup turned a sommersalt."

"Nice," Greg laughed. "How old is she now?"

"Four months. Hyper as all get out, but she's such a sweetie. Even Mozart likes her – he has the usual cat 'all dogs are undignified' thing if he sees you watching, but as soon as you turn your back, they're curled up napping together, and he's purring like a buzz saw."

"Cute," he snickered. "Hey, Annie – if there's anything I can do, let me know, okay?"

"I will."

"Good." He grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. "Welcome back."

* * *

Annie reached over to knock on the frame of the open door, but she was too slow.

_*Pretty fishy – what a lovely bass... Pretty fishy – how can you walk past...I'm the one you just can't throw back... That's why I'm hanging here on a plaque...*_

"Evening, Grissom. And good evening to you as well, Billy," she laughed, saluting the novelty singing fish trophy that served as the night shift supervisor's office sentry. "I have _got_ to get one of those for the Tox lab."

Grissom looked up from his paperwork, grinning. "Welcome back, Annie. Glad to see you feeling better. I assume the doc did clear you to be here tonight?"

"Yeppers," Annie laughed, leaning against the open door frame. "Otherwise, believe me, Scott would have made sure I stayed home. But the roofies are out of my bloodstream at this point, and I'll go stir-crazy if I spend the night at home by myself."

"Fair enough," Grissom nodded. "Hives still hanging around, I take it?" he asked.

"Yep. The calamine lotion makes me look like I've got pink polka dots, but then again, the hives do that too, so I may as well at least be slightly less itchy." She shrugged. "It's not surprising – I've been prone to hives with very little provocation ever since I was a toddler, and it usually takes me forever to get rid of 'em."

"How are you doing?" he asked. His tone made it clear that he was _not_ referring to the allergic reaction.

She sighed. "Better. I'm still pretty jumpy, and I doubt the prospect of going out to eat will be appealing anytime soon. But I think getting back into a routine will help, and I promised Scott I'd go see a counselor in the next few days." She grimaced. "Frankly, I'd rather go jump in the Nile and let the hippos and the crocogators play rock-paper-scissors as to who gets first dibs on ripping me apart, but I gotta admit that he's right. If I had any doubts of that before, Ecklie was kind enough to relieve me of them this morning," she sighed.

"How so?" Grissom asked, cocking his head to one side

"He came by Desert Palm early this morning to lecture me about 'drinking on the city's time' – never mind that I was neither drinking, nor was I on the city's time. After you and Doc Robbins left late last night, I was scared, and I asked Scott to come lie down with me. I eventually fell back asleep – I'm not at all sure that he did – but he was still there when Ecklie showed up just after seven. Ecklie made some stupid double entendre about the two of us doing something in that bed other than sleeping in it, and it took everything I had not to flip out and break down crying in front of him – I refuse to give Ecklie _that_ kind of satisfaction." She shrugged. "It was juvenile and stupid, and, ordinarily, I'd likely have rolled my eyes and ignored it - I probably shouldn't have let it get to me like that, but I was stressed and exhausted, and I just didn't have the spoons to deal with Ecklie. I eventually managed to tell him off, and Scott told him to leave in no uncertain terms."

"Spoons?" he asked, confused.

Annie nodded. "Google 'spoon theory'."

Grissom frowned. "I'll do that. But Annie, you have grounds to make a formal complaint."

"I know I do, and I'm making a conscious informed decision not to do it. If he tries that crap again, his ass is mine, assuming Scott doesn't get to it first, but right now, pursuing it simply requires more mental and emotional energy than I have. I'm likely to wind up short on spoons over the next couple of weeks; I'd rather spend them on getting through this than on trying to bust someone known for occasional asinine behavior on said asinine behavior. I am specifically asking you not to make a huge deal of this."

"All right. But please... let me know if anything like that _ever_ happens again."

"I will," she nodded. "Promise."

"Good. By the way, I know Catherine and Warrick cleared your backpack last night, so you should be able to get it back from them – I assume your mp3 player was in there, and I know the Tox lab just isn't the same without the Bach playlist," Grissom grinned.

"I do keep an emergency stash of classical CDs in there for when I leave the iPod on the charger, but no, it isn't the same without my Bach," Annie laughed. "I'll go get that back from them before I head down to the lab."

"Great. By the way, you absolutely cannot handle _any_ of the samples pertaining to your case."

Annie nodded. "I kinda assumed that that went without saying. Last thing I want is to get the case thrown out of court by being an idiot."

Grissom nodded. "Right. But-"

"Always best to cover one's bass," Annie finished. "Roger-Dodger. I've got samples for the Johnson and Franklin cases that need to be run, and anything Nick and Sara brought in that Greg couldn't get to last night. And if that doesn't keep me busy all night, day shift is backlogged."

"Sounds like a plan," Grissom nodded. "Let me know if there's anything you need, okay?"

"Will do."

* * *

Having retrieved her backpack, Annie had selected the 'Classical – All Composers' playlist on her iPod and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. Her earbuds in, she was humming along to a variation on Pachelbel's Cannon in D as she all but danced into the Tox lab, where she found... Conrad Ecklie, sitting on a lab bench like he owned the place. She removed one earbud, slipping it into the pocket of her lab coat. "Ecklie," she nodded. "Is my watch fast or slow?"

"Neither," he replied. "I came back in at eleven because I was looking for you."

"How'd you know I'd be in?"

"Annie, I was your direct supervisor for six months – I _know_ you. You _never_ stay off longer than you absolutely have to. It's one of the things I respect about you."

"Fair enough," Annie nodded. "What did I do this time?"

"Nothing, except set me straight. This isn't about what you did, this is about what I did. My behavior this morning was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was," Annie agreed.

"For what it's worth, I apologize."

Annie cracked a smile. "Thanks, Ecklie – that actually means a lot more to me than you might think."

"Are you doing all right?" he asked, getting up from the lab bench

The lab tech sighed. "Mostly. I'm still pretty shaken up, but I think getting back to a routine will help."

"Good – let me know if there's anything I can do to help, all right?"

Annie nodded. "I will."

"Good," he said, setting a hand on her shoulder. "Glad things are getting back to normal for you."

Annie cracked a small smile as she shook her head. "Normality is the number of molar equivalents per liter of solution, Ecklie," she laughed. "Any other definition for it is kinda pointless."


	6. Chapter 5: The Tip of the Iceberg

**Chapter 5: The Tip of the Iceberg**

"Well, well - if it isn't our favorite toxicologist, back in action," Nick laughed, stepping into the Tox lab and recognizing the lab rat by her playlist before he even stepped around the bench and saw her. "How are you doing, Annie?" he asked, setting a hand on her shoulder.

"Better," she sighed, sniffling as she turned around to face him. "I'm still a walking snot factory, but I'm breathing without supplemental O2, that's gotta be a good start, right?"

"Well, I hear tell it's better than you were doing last night," Nick nodded. "But how are you _really_ doing?"

"Jumpy and nervous," she sighed, perching herself on the lab bench.

"Anyone would be," Nick nodded.

Annie blinked back tears. "It's just... I've been studying martial arts for a couple decades now; I don't carry a concealed weapon, but I can stick up for myself pretty well in a dark alley. Thank God, I've never had to. But I can't stick up for myself if I'm drugged to oblivion. And it scares me realizing just how vulnerable I really am."

"Of course it does, that's part of being human," Nick told her, offering her a hug which she gratefully accepted. "Annie, you _will_ get through this. Just don't be afraid to let any of us know if there's anything we can do to help, all right?"

"I'll do that," she nodded, wiping her eyes. "Thanks, Nick."

"Anytime," he told her. "And I mean that in the most literal sense possible – I can promise you, none of us care if it's the middle of the day, or what."

"Thanks, Nick," she said, managing a small smile. "I haven't even been back an hour yet, and it's amazing how supportive everyone has been."

"Of course – CSI is a family," he grinned. "Any time you need us, we'll be there."

"Nick... you have no idea how much that means to me," Annie said, sniffling again. Grabbing a kimwipe from the box next to the GCMS, she blew her nose, discarding the used tissue in the trash. Finally, she managed her trademark grin. "Now, whatchya got for me?" she laughed.

"Five glasses and two blood samples from last night's crashed limo," Nick replied, setting the samples on the bench top. "Need a full tox panel, please."

"No problem," Annie grinned. "I'm really excited to be back in the lab with something to do. I'll hit your pager when I've got results."

"Awesome – you're the best, Annie."

* * *

"The Rite Place just sent over their personnel files," Warrick said. "They weren't thrilled about it, but they'd rather that than the bad publicity of a date rape drug incident on the premises right after opening."

Catherine nodded. "They're pretty thorough, they background check all of their employees at time of hire, and everyone has to pass a drug test."

"Anything of note?" Grissom asked.

"Most serious offenses are a handful of traffic violations and a a couple of drunk and disorderlies," Warrick said, shaking his head. "And none of these guys are a match to the one that Annie and her friends describe as the one hassling her."

Just then, Greg dashed around the corner, nearly running into the three CSIs. "Guys, I've got something you need to see. Right now."

Three faces turned to the lab rat in expressions of surprise. "Lead on, Greg," Grissom nodded.

"I went to pull up an old trace on the GCMS, and I clicked the wrong file name by accident," he said, leading the group into 'his' lab. "Check this out," he said, pulling up a chromatogram on the monitor.

"Rohypnol," Warrick nodded. "That Annie's bloodwork from last night?"

Greg shook his head. "No, that's the one I opened by accident – one of day shift's cases dated a week ago. And it's why you've gotta see this. Look –_ this_ is Annie's bloodwork," he said, overlaying a second trace on top of the first. "Pay special attention to the red, blue, and green peaks."

"They're identical," Catherine nodded. "What does this mean, Greg?"

"The red peaks are the flunitrazepam itself – the blue and green ones are two different binding agents that hold it all together in a tablet."

"All right," Grissom nodded. "Go on."

"This is a really unusual combination of binding agents – I'm only aware of one brand that uses it; they make it for the European market where it can be legally prescribed. It's a Scandinavian company, based in Sweden."

"So... two separate cases used the same brand," Grissom nodded. "Catherine, Warrick – pull the case file for this one and look it over." He turned to the DNA tech. "Nice work, Greg."

"Why, thank you," Greg said, preening.

"Don't let it go to your head."

* * *

"Got the file?" Catherine asked as Warrick stepped into the layout room.

Warrick nodded. "Three files, in fact. There were a couple others in the last month where a woman complained something had been put in her drink, but it was never proven."

"All right – I've got Annie's file here. Let's have a look," she nodded. "So, starting with the most recent, we have Anne Rose – CSI lab technician, out with fifteen other women at the Rite Place Steak House last night. Collapsed due to severe allergic reaction upon arriving at work. Confirmed to have been dosed with Rohypnol," she said, tacking the first case sheet to the bulletin board. On another wall, she'd tacked up a large street map of the Strip and surrounding area and a large wall calendar. She marked the previous day's date and location of the Rite Place with green pushpins.

"And the next most recent," Warrick nodded, opening one of his file folders and tacking a sheet up next to Annie's. "Hannah Abbot – fourth grade teacher at Stony Brook Elementary, out at Zen Garden Sushi House with seven other teachers eight days ago. Woke up Saturday morning in naked in a hotel room on the strip with no memory of how she'd gotten there; rape kit came back positive. Also confirmed to have been dosed with Rohypnol."

"Eight days ago, Zen Garden," Catherine confirmed, marking the location and date with yellow pushpins.

Warrick picked up the next folder, pinning up the sheet. "Next up, we have Penny Lane – ER nurse at Desert Palm, out with eleven other women from the Greenvale Presbyterian Church Ladies' Circle #4 at La Fiesta Mexicana fifteen days ago. She didn't report it until four days later – urine tests inconclusive for the presence of Rohypnol, rape kit unconfirmed."

Catherine nodded. "Fifteen days ago, La Fiesta Mexicana," she said, frowning as she marked date and location with blue pushpins.

"And, last but not least, we have Mallory Lake – mechanic at Mojave Auto Specialists, out with Black Widow BlackJack Club twenty-two days ago at Mama Maria's Authentic Italian Cuisine. Woke up in a back alley off the strip with no recollection of how she got there. Reported it three days later – rape kit positive, urinalysis inconclusive for Rohypnol." He paused as he went to tack the sheet up with the others. "Catherine... all four of these women are redheads."

"That's not all," Catherine scowled, adding a pair of red pushpins. "The restaurants they ate at are within half a mile of each other, and the dates fall on four consecutive Fridays."

Warrick frowned. "It's way too late to get reliable results from Penny or Mallory from urine, let alone blood. But it's not too late to get it from hair."

Catherine nodded. "I doubt a hair sample will confirm the binding agents, but we may not need it to. Come on – we need to find Grissom, and then get a hold of Brass."


	7. Chapter 6: Not Funny

**Chapter 6: Not Funny**

"Three other cases?" Grissom asked.

"That we know about," Warrick sighed. "It's possible they're completely unrelated, but that's asking an awful lot of coincidence."

Catherine nodded. "Ecklie's crew ran urine samples from the two women who reported incidents days after the fact, but they came back inconclusive - if the Rohypnol was ever there, too much of it had been metabolized out to trip the detection limit. A hair sample will give us a much longer time window to work with. We'll go talk to Hannah, Penny, and Mallory in the morning."

Grissom frowned. "Targets individual women out of large groups... redheads... between 24 and 30 years of age... every Friday. If this is a serial, he's going to be frustrated that Annie left for work last night before he could follow through."

Warrick scowled. "Possibly frustrated enough to have tried again with another woman," he nodded grimly.

Grissom nodded. "Keep an eye out for more cases fitting the pattern in the next couple of days," he told his CSIs. "And pray to God we catch the bastard before Friday," he muttered to himself.

* * *

"Blood's impossible to see on this burgundy upholstery," Sara said, on her hands and knees in the back of the wrecked limo which had been towed back to the CSI garage. "But some luminol should fix that."

"Sounds like a plan," Nick agreed, buttoning a set of coveralls over his khakis and t-shirt. "I'm going to see if I can find the source of that shock."

"Good times," Sara nodded, spraying the whole backseat down. "All right – got a large pool of blood here. It's not where we found Kestrel last night, but that's not surprising; without a seat belt, she probably got tossed backwards in the collision. Spatter is consistent with her having been stabbed directly in front of the pool, facing the driver. Suggests upward trajectory, consistent with what Doc Robbins found in the autopsy."

"Got spotty thermal damage to the dashboard up here," Nick said. "Consistent with Ben's reports of sparks flying. Gear shift lever is clean, burn marks on the steering wheel, but I'm not seeing any conductors here..."

"Nick... there are prints all over the screen between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. Plenty of fingerprints and full handprints, right and left. If these are a match to Kestrel, she may have been trying to get John's attention."

"Wonder when," Nick mused, not looking up from where he was removing the vinyl covering from the steering wheel. "Couldn't have been to warn him about the crash - the doc puts her time of death at least an hour before Ben saw sparks fly. Any luck reaching the management at the limo service yet?"

"None – no one's answered all day, either there or at the owner's home phone number. Kestrel's parents will be flying in first thing in the morning, though."

"And... found it. This was no accident. There's a piece of copper foil inside the steering wheel cover with a wire connecting through the seam – right where the driver's right hand would sit. It's gonna take me hours to trace the wiring back to find out what tripped this death trap, though." Just then, his pager went off. "That's probably Annie," he observed.

"I'll go check it out," Sara nodded. "I'm not elbow-deep in car parts," she smirked.

* * *

Sara made it a point to knock on the open door frame of the tox lab before stepping in – the night shift toxicologist was known to startle easily under the best of circumstances and, after last night, she didn't want to scare her. "Just me, Annie," she said. "Nick's playing mechanic with the limo we towed in last night. You paged?"

"Yep," Annie nodded. "Your limo has a _very_ well-stocked bar. Your glasses contained remnants of an Agent Orange, an earth-style Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, a Screaming Orgasm, a Sex on the Beach, and a Monkey Gland. Color me impressed. Broad selection of alcohol and other mixers, but no illicit substances."

"Can you give me that in English?" Sara asked.

"Agent Orange is vodka and carrot juice. The Gargle Blaster is rum, tequila, gin, triple sec, Blue Curaçao, bitters, and grenadine. A Screaming Orgasm is vodka, amaretto, triple sec, white crème de cacao, and half and half. And Sex on the Beach is vodka, peach schnapps, melon liquor, orange juice, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice – and, in this case, a dash of club soda to make it sparkle."

Sara nodded. "All right... do I want to ask what's in a Monkey Gland?"

"Probably not, no," Annie laughed. "It's made from gin, orange juice, grenadine, and absinthe." Her nose wrinkled. "Orange juice and anise _really _should not mix."

"Ew," Sara grimaced. "I thought you didn't drink, Annie?"

"I don't," Annie snickered. "But I hung with some pretty wild nerds back in college – and unlike some of them, I remember every minute of it," she laughed. "Not to mention, I'm a toxicologist in Vegas. You pick these things up after a while."

"Fair enough," Sara smirked. "How many of those did you hear about in college, out of curiosity?"

"Four," Annie smirked, holding up four fingers. "The Monkey Gland, I didn't learn about until I came here – absinthe is a bit pricey for the college market. But I'm something of a Douglas Adams fan, my roommate's boyfriend was crazy about Agent Orange, and Sex on the Beach was a huge thing on campus. One of my funniest class periods ever was watching a couple of classmates try to explain, in Russian, to our native-speaker professor that they were talking about a drink, not actually _having_ sex on a beach."

"How exactly did this come up?" Sara asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Annie shrugged. "Zhenya and Dasha decided to have some fun with a homework assignment asking us to describe what we did over the weekend. They said, probably truthfully, that they got a hangover from too much vodka and sex on the beach. Aleksandra Petrovna corrected their grammar as to how one would go about saying they'd had too much sex, and then launched into a long tangent about _exactly_ how unpleasant actual sex on a beach would be."

"In Russian?"

"Of course. Aleksandra Petrovna always tells Russian students that she can't speak English. It isn't true – I happen to know that she speaks it just fine – but she doesn't speak it to Russian students. Fall term, she'll let you ask questions in English, but she'll answer in Russian or, when necessary, pictionary and charades. Winter term, it depends on the question. Spring term, if you ask her something in English, she'll tell you that she doesn't understand. Led to her doing a hilarious interpretive dance trying to explain what a T. rex was." Annie smirked. "Man, I miss college sometimes."

"I can see why," Sara laughed. "Anything on those two blood samples?"

"You bet," Annie nodded. "Sample A contained ibuprofen and ethanol – levels are indicative of about two drinks' worth. May or may not have been a little tipsy, but probably not outright drunk unless they're a total lightweight like me."

"Blood sample A – that'll be Kestrel's," Sara nodded. "And the other?"

"Sample B contains a muscle relaxant – a low dose, probably not enough to cause drowsiness in most adults – and diclofenac. Pretty heavy-duty NSAID – same class as aspirin or ibuprofen, but prescription only. Also found alprazolam, better known as Xanax – levels are consistent with therapeutic use rather than recreational use."

"Awesome," Sara nodded. "Thanks." She paused. "How are you doing, Annie?"

The lab rat sighed. "... All right, I guess. Being back at work helps. But I'm still insanely jumpy, even for me, and I'm... a lot more scared than I really want to admit." She shrugged, scratching absently at her shoulderblade through her lab coat. "Also insanely itchy and a walking snot factory, but _that_ problem,I know Benadryl will actually _fix_."

Sara set a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Hang in there, Annie," she said with a small smile. "And if there's anything any of us can do to help, let us know, all right?"

Annie nodded. "I will. Thanks, Sara."

"Any time." She grinned. "Hey, Annie – what was the stupidest thing you ever did in college?" she asked, hoping to coax a laugh out of the toxicologist.

Annie smirked. "Hmm... riding my bike in a Minnesota January is likely right up there, but on the whole, I think that would have to be a toss-up..."

"Between?"

"Fall term, junior year – taking Intro Physics, Quantum Mechanics, and Ad Lab 1 at the same time," Annie smirked. "Death by calculus. And the other contender would be winter term, sophomore year, first week of Orgo 1."

"What, start a sink fire?" Sara laughed.

"If only I had been so lucky," Annie giggled. "No, I learned the hard way that no matter how sick you are, no matter how much you don't want to miss lab, you do _not_ have Mountain Dew and cough syrup for breakfast and then walk into a lab full of ether fumes. It's a bad idea, and you should not do it," she laughed. "Bronchitis. I'd had Mari and me both up all night with my coughing, and she _told_ me I should just stay home. But everyone _knows_ you don't miss lab, especially not the first week – a four hour lab is a pain to make up. So I got some Mountain Dew to wake up, Robitussin to shut up, and off to chem lab I went. _Bad_ idea."

"Ouch," Sara snickered.

"No kidding – prof wound up sending me back to the dorm," Annie giggled. "How about you, Sara? Dumbest thing in four years?"

"Hmm..." Just then, the CSI's pager went off. "Greg," she said, glancing down. "Saved by the bell," she laughed, hurrying out.

Annie smirked. "Cheater," she laughed. Humming along with the Mozart playing in the background, she stepped over to the fume hood to get samples prepped for the Johnson case.

* * *

"Greg – whatchya got for me?" Sara asked, stepping into the DNA lab.

"The female contributions from the condoms you found in the limo are both a match to Kestrel Morgan."

"Consistent with Doc Robbins' autopsy findings," Sara nodded. "Same guy?"

"Nope – two different guys. No genetic relation, either to each other or to Ms. Morgan."

"Thanks, Greg," Sara nodded. "I'll go give Nick the info.

* * *

"I'm on my way, Jim," Grissom nodded. With that, he hung up the phone. Grabbing his field kit, he headed out to the parking lot.

* * *

"What have we got, Jim?" Grissom asked, finding the detective standing outside the Desert Rose Exotic Dance Palace.

"Management tells us they've got a room in the back that they rent out for parties and the like – they'll supply the entertainment for an extra fee, or you can just pay for the space and handle your own amusement. They had a bachelorette party back there tonight who brought their own eye candy. The Desert Rose manager went back there after the party ended to check damages for the security deposit and walked in on a crime scene."

"How bad?" Grissom asked.

"One dead body – Cockly the Dirty Clown."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Cockly?"

The ghost of a smirk crossed Brass's face. "Well... it _is_ Vegas..."

* * *

Grissom stepped into the room, Brass following close behind.

"Is that a balloon _penis_?" Brass asked in disbelief.

Grissom smirked as he played the beam of his maglight around the room. "Well... it _is_ Vegas..."


	8. Chapter 7: The Novelty

**Chapter 7: The Novelty**

"Light switch is covered with partial prints – I doubt there'll be anything clean enough to use," Grissom observed, lifting the prints anyway before flipping the switch, at last allowing the CSI and the detective a proper look around. The white room had been decorated in black, silver, and hot pink streamers, and clusters of black and hot pink balloons floated here and there on the ceiling. "Don't touch without gloves, but can you tell me what's in the bowls, Jim?" he asked, making his way over to the bar.

Brass stepped over to the nearest chrome-finish bowl and peered inside, his hands in his pockets. "Novelty condoms," he answered. "See some flavored ones, textured ones, glow in the dark, metallic... colored ones... what does color have to do with it, anyway?"

"You said it yourself, Jim," Grissom shrugged, inspecting some oyster shooters on the bar. "It's a novelty."

"Guess I don't get out enough," Brass said wryly. "What's at the bar, Gil?"

"Oyster shooters, champagne, and..." he sniffed at a glass. "Fuzzy Navels."

Brass stepped over to the buffet table. "Pasta salad with penis-shaped pasta... penis-shaped mints, penis ice cubes, penis Jell-o molds... a penis _cake_? Was this a wedding party, or a herd of high school girls?" he snorted. Putting on latex gloves, he picked up one of the balloon penises scattered about the room. "Y'know, I think I'm glad I didn't have to watch him tie these things off," he said, cringing. "What's wrong with balloon _animals_?"

"I make a pretty good balloon tarantula, myself," Grissom shrugged, at last making his way to the figure slumped in the corner. "Ah – Cockly the Dirty Clown," he said, kneeling down by the body. "Hot pink afro, black and hot pink polka dot pointy hat, black and hot pink polka dot body paint, hot pink ruffled collar, hot pink clown shoes... and a literal banana hammock."

"How so?" Brass asked, cocking his head to one side.

"It's shaped and colored like a banana," Grissom shrugged, snapping pictures. "Not seeing any blood, but there's definite cyanosis on his hands, the only part of him not covered in paint – I suspect he died of asphyxiation. His face paint isn't smudged, so probably not suffocation." Satisfied that he had all of the pictures he needed, he removed the clown's collar. "The irony... isn't funny," he observed.

"How so?" Brass asked.

"He was strangled... with a balloon."

* * *

"And... got it," Nick said. "We're going to need to talk to John's supervisor and find out if _anyone_ else ever drove this limo."

"Why's that, Nick?" Sara asked, not looking up from where she was printing all of the various bottles in the limo's bar.

"This was a dead car driving. The shock mechanism was wired to the odometer. Soon as it hit 50,000 miles... ZAP," he responded. "Someone knew an awful lot about what they were doing. Someone with access to this car." Both CSIs looked up at the sound of footsteps coming into the garage – it turned out to be one of the interns. "What's up, Cory?" Nick asked.

"There's an Andrew Tyson here to see you guys," the young man responded. "He says LVPD contacted him about his dead nephew?"

Sara nodded. "Tell him we'll be right up."

* * *

Once Nick had ditched his coveralls, removed the grease from his hands, and generally made himself presentable, he and Sara headed upstairs. As they stepped into the quiet room where a tall, dark-skinned man with greying hair waited, two things were immediately apparent about the elder Mr. Tyson. The first was the stolid demeanor of a veteran. The second was that he had recently been crying. "Good evening, Mr. Tyson," Nick nodded. "I'm Nick Stokes, and this is Sara Sidle. We're very sorry about your nephew."

"Thank you," the older man nodded. "The officer who came to my house didn't have any details – can you tell me how John died?"

"He was electrocuted," Sara replied. "We believe the wiring in his limo was rigged."

"Lord be with him..." Andrew Tyson sighed.

"Mr. Tyson – could you tell us about John?"

"John was always a good kid. He never knew his father – low life bastard left my sister when she was six months pregnant – but Monica was one of the most determined single parents I ever knew. John was a reasonably good student – mostly As and Bs with the occasional C – but he was a favorite with teachers because he was always so enthusiastic. He was fun, funny – his favorite thing to do was to make people smile, brighten their day. Monica died of breast cancer when John was in middle school, and my wife and I were awarded custody. We were never able to have children of our own, and that boy was everything to us. John was always fascinated by cars and airplanes. As a little boy, he wanted to grow up to be a Nascar driver. He was about 12 or so when he changed his mind and decided to be an air force pilot instead. That, alas, was not to be – between the sickle cell and the scoliosis, the air force, army, and navy all drummed him right on out of there," Mr. Tyson said, wiping his eyes. "I'm retired military myself – injured out of Vietnam – and he was afraid I would be disappointed in him. I told him to push that idea right out of his head – if he took pride in his work and did it honorably and well, it didn't matter if he was a doctor, a soldier, or a janitor. I would always be proud of him."

Nick nodded. "It sounds like your nephew was an amazing young man," he said. "I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet him."

Mr. Tyson cracked a small smile. "Yes... he was an amazing young man indeed. He always loved driving from the time he turned sixteen and I taught him to drive on my twenty year old pick-up, so when the military plan fell through, he got his CDL. He worked as a long-haul trucker for a while, but while he loved the open road, he found the job a bit lonely – John thrived among people. He was home for a visit when he heard about the limo job with Avery's Livery, and went in for an interview. He'd figured it was just a pie in the sky, but he was elated when they called back a few days later and offered him the job. He loved it. If he had a passenger traveling alone who seemed down, he'd often leave the screen down at their request and just chat with them for a while – he usually had them laughing by the time they reached their destination. He was a substitute bus driver for the Las Vegas school system, too – the kids all loved him."

"Mr. Tyson, the coroner found evidence that John had sustained major skeletal trauma in the last couple years. Can you tell us what happened?" Sara asked.

"That I can, Ms. Sidle, that I can," Mr. Tyson nodded. "About two years ago, Johnny went to a bar on his day off with a buddy for sports trivia night. While they were there, a bunch of low-lifes started heckling a young lady – outright sexual harassment, at best, and threatening to come to violence. John was having none of that – he set down his beer, got up, went over there, and told them to knock it off. The thugs decided to pick a fight of it – there were seven of them, and only one of John. He got the crap beaten out of him. His buddy came out of the bathroom just in time to call 911." Mr. Tyson smirked. "When I went to see him in the hospital right after he came out of surgery, he grinned up at me and told me 'Uncle Andy, that was probably stupid of me, but I ain't sorry. I was raised with more respect for women than that, and those assholes needed to learn some.' My response was 'Semper fi, Son.' That boy would have made a helluva serviceman." He shook his head. "Unsurprisingly, he needed months of rehab after that. He came back to live with me and Becky for quite some time so that we could take care of him, drive him to appointments when he was still on narcs. It was eight months before he could go back to work, and he just moved into his own apartment six months ago."

"Did your nephew have any enemies that you were aware of, Mr. Tyson?" Nick asked.

"Well, there's those seven biker wannabes that beat the shit out of him, but they're all in jail. Other than them, I'm not aware of anyone, no."

"Other than you and your wife, was there anyone who was especially close to him?"

"His girlfriend, Carrie. I'm not looking forward to breaking this news to her."

* * *

"Here's his wallet," Grissom nodded, finding the item in Cockly the Clown's duffel bag. "According to his driver's license, his real name is Elliot Lasseter. Age 33."

"And here's his business card," Brass nodded. "Cockly the Dirty Clown, Specializing in Adult Entertainment for the Young-at-Heart. There's a business address on here as well."

"Excellent," Grissom nodded. "Hopefully, he has some staff for us to talk to." Both men glanced over their shoulders as the door opened. "'Evening, David," Grissom nodded.

"'Evening," the assistant coroner nodded. "You guys ready for me?"

Grissom nodded in the affirmative. "The body is over there," he said, pointing.

Stepping over to the location indicated, David whistled. "A banana banana hammock. Okay – this is officially the most bizarre pick-up I've had all month."

"Not all year?" Brass asked, raising an eyebrow.

David paused a moment, considering that. "Nope. Not even close," he smirked. "This is Vegas, remember?" He knelt down beside his patient. "Liver temp will put his time of death around 1:00 to 3:00."

"Desert Rose Management says the party ended at midnight – any chance he died as early as that?" Grissom asked.

"Not unless he was running a fever," David replied. "So unlikely, but not impossible – I won't be able to confirm or deny until we get in there and see what's what." He grimaced. "Man, I hate it when they die wearing body paint – all this grease paint is going to be a _bear_ for us to remove before we start the autopsy."

"Glad it's you and not me," Brass nodded.

"We'll see you back at the morgue, David," Grissom nodded. "C'mon Jim – time to go and talk with our first witness."

* * *

Henry Fisher was something of a nervous wreck. His shaking hand had nearly spilled his coffee cup three times in the past five minutes alone.

"Can you tell me what happened, Henry?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah... yeah." Henry took a deep breath. "The girls from the party all left around midnight. Renters are responsible for set-up and decorating, but we handle the clean-up as part of our fee – most of our events in that room are bachelor and bachelorette parties so the best man and the maid of honor will be busy with the wedding in the morning. They're happy to pay us for the clean-up work, and it brings us more business. Cockly always liked to take an hour or so after every show to relax... unwind... put his gear away. That kind of thing. I popped in there about 12:15. There was a lot of leftover food that I was just gonna throw out, so I told him to help himself if he was hungry. He said yeah, he'd do that."

"Was Cockly a regular here?" Brass asked.

"Kinda, yeah – he'd be hired for bachelorette parties here about once or twice a month, usually. Nice guy – friendly, always polite and helpful to the girls we've got working here. He does... did the adult clown gig just because he enjoyed it. He liked the attention, liked making people laugh."

"What time did you discover the body?" Grissom asked.

"I went back in there about 2:00 – I'd meant to do it an hour or so earlier, but I got held up dealing with a minor crisis out here. Patron who'd had a little too much to drink and was not taking kindly to my bouncer informing him of the fact. After he was escorted out, I went to the back room to start cleaning up in there. I'd figured Cockly would be long gone, so I was really surprised when I saw his duffel bag still sitting there. At first I'd figured he must have forgotten it, but then I saw him slumped in the corner. I talked to him, put my hand on his shoulder..." A look of horror crossed Henry's face as he saw the traces of black and pink grease paint on his fingers. "He was dead."

"Is there any way into that room without coming through the front?" Grissom asked.

"There's a door to the outside hidden away behind the stage – required for fire codes," Henry nodded. "But it locks from the inside automatically – no one could have gotten in that way unless Cockly opened the door and let them in."

Brass nodded. "Thank you for your help, Henry. Are you going to be all right driving home?"

Henry shook his head. "My boyfriend is coming to pick me up."

"Good," Grissom nodded.


End file.
